


hold me a while longer (she won't be gone for long)

by phwaa



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phwaa/pseuds/phwaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling feels like this:</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me a while longer (she won't be gone for long)

 

 

 

 

HOLD ME A WHILE LONGER (SHE WON’T BE GONE FOR LONG)

(White Lies; Black Song)

 

 

  

 

Falling feels like this:

(Wake up, wake up, wake up.)

She’s awake.

Somewhere in her head, there’s buzzing.

“What does it feel like?” Greer had asked, years ago, standing above her with a small microchip in hand. “To fall so far.”

She hadn't answered, hadn't said a word but knew the answer all the same.

(It feels like this, she’d thought, closing her eyes against the harsh light that flooded the operating theater.)

 

\--

 

Rescued and rasping and Root, she’d died in a puddle of her own blood whilst Root had screamed above.

She dreams, so frequently, of the woman who’d saved her life. Of dancing eyes, a gaping mouth and hands pushing down against her chest, pleading and bleeding over her sagging body. Shaw hadn't seen sunlight for six years and it had just about killed her.

Soldiers lay around, stood around, ran around and back into the warehouse.

Samaritan couldn't let her go without a fight; she’d fallen mere steps from the exit and crumbled beneath Root’s hold.

Rescued and rasping and Root, she’d died and survived beneath the heady feeling of home.

 

\--

 

With a quick detour to drop the wounded at Bravo, it takes three days to get back to Delta and Shaw sleeps fitfully the whole way. She dreams, dreams, dreams and wakes with the urgent need to shoot something. With three missions under her belt, she’s getting used to the long travel and short breaks between the rebel camps.

Reese greets them at the gates, helps Pratt down before turning to her. It’s dark across the yard and the floodlights are already on, Delta base sits in the middle of nowhere and the stars are the only thing visible above the high walls.

“How many did we lose?” Reese asks, when Shaw and Pratt have hit ground and the troops are unloading the trucks.

She doesn't answer immediately, remembers coming from Bravo to join Delta Tango Eight under Dean Pratt, remembers trying hard to make up for his lost soldiers and failing miserably.

“I lost twelve.” Pratt says, kicking at the ground and always taking unnecessary responsibility. “We dropped seventeen men off at Bravo, but I haven’t heard back from Nine or Ten so the overall numbers haven’t been calculated.”

By the looks of it, Delta Tango Nine and Ten haven’t returned yet, and Shaw hadn't seen them leave the building before the fire. “If they didn't make it out,” Shaw says, “I hope Samaritan kills them quick.”

(Six years inside a Samaritan cell. Six years of daily torture and isolation, it had taken Shaw eighteen months to consider death.)

 “They've got time.” Reese says, looking down to the watch at his wrist and back around to the gates. “They might've left in time.”

Shrugging, Shaw looks back at the soldiers dragging ammo boxes to the lock up. “I need to sleep and drink.” Shaw sways against the breeze, huffing before she heads over to help. “And I’m going to do both as soon as we've finished unloading.”

Three days ago they were miles away from here, storming a Samaritan cell and burning it to the ground as the town around them woke to disarray. By now, Root’s face will be attached to yet another terrorist attack and the news will still be trying to justify the guards on the street.

And Greer’s government will be stumbling.

 

\--

 

It was immeasurably uncomfortable at first, being surrounded by the face she already sees constantly in her head.

The posters present the commander as untouchable, composed and heroic in her stance. Root looks like the leader she was never meant to be and Shaw wants to rip the pictures from the walls and leave the base empty in the wake of her hurricane.

Shaw knows she’s staring, but she still acts surprised when the doctor hums from the desk in the corner. “She’s quite the leader.” He says, and it’s not at all what Shaw was thinking but she wouldn't admit that to him, so she nods and grits her teeth instead. “I believe she’s planning a visit to Delta soon.”

It’s been months since her last visit.

(The face of the rebellion, the leader of the revolution and the analogue interface to Samaritan’s only fitting opponent, Root is worshiped everywhere across the rebel camps.)

Shaw can’t keep the scowl from her face, mumbles “what an honor,” and hopes Dr Barnes doesn't hear the sarcasm in her voice. She ignores the tightness in her chest, the ball in her gut and the mild excitement she feels at the thought. Shaw pretends she doesn't wait, wait, wait for the commander to return.

“How've you been feeling, Shaw?” Dr Barnes asks, walking to her side and folding fabric around her arm before inflating it. It takes a moment, but then Shaw feels her pulse throbbing through her veins as her blood pressure is measured. “Have you noticed any differences in your behavior?”

She shakes her head, clenching her fingers as he reads her stats. “No.”

“Any physical changes?” He unwraps the cuffs. “Or headaches?”

Again, again, again. Her answer is always the same. “No.”

Dr Barnes nods to himself, moving to scribble against his desk as he asks a few more questions that don’t apply. Samaritan left their trademark scarred along her body and scorched across her skin, but it wasn't enough. They’d implanted a microchip deep within her brain and it drives the doctors crazy. It had taken weeks for her to be released from Bravo and months to be cleared for duty, she still catches Finch staring across at her skull.

“Everything seems to be the same.” Dr Barnes says, exasperated and tired. “I’ll send the data to the Echo teams, but your little chip still remains a mystery to us.”

Shaw hadn't expected any other result; her check-ups always start and end the same. “Great.”

He looks guilty, like he always does, and twists to lean against the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry, Shaw.”

“Whatever.” She says, shrugging and trying to look sincere when she smiles. “If it’s going to kill me, then there’s nothing you can do anyway.”

(She’d woken with a heavy head and buzzing that had lasted for days, Shaw hadn't been given time to recover.)

 

\--

 

Delta Tango Nine and Ten don’t return.

It’s a heavy blow and they wait two weeks to confirm their loss. Reese, as Delta’s tactical director, stutters through a speech about risks and rights and what’s necessary for the revolution. Losing nearly two hundred soldiers leaves a huge dent in Delta and the base stands quiet across the yard.

Both Alpha and Golf are sending soldiers over to make up for the emptiness around the camp, and all new recruits are being assigned to Delta squads.

The rebellion leaves no time to mourn and the silence passes almost as quickly as it came.

 

\--

 

Finch watches her finish her laps and hobbles over as she’s heaving to a stop. A misfit man that still clings to his suit in a sea of khaki, Harold Finch doesn't look like he belongs anywhere.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He says, leaning heavily on his cane. She’d been surprised, when she’d first awoken in the rebel camps, at how old Finch had grown. He spends all his time in the labs nowadays, travelling to and from Echo in a hopeless attempt to understand the Samaritan systems.

Shaw nods, breathes heavily into the cold air and waits for her lungs to adapt. “It’s your loss too, Finch.”

It takes a moment, and then he blinks and leans back a little. “Indeed.” He mumbles, watching as the other soldiers reach the finish and collapse against the tracks. “Though I didn't know them personally, you’re right that every rebel death is a defeat.”

He didn't come here to talk about this; Shaw knows that there are only a few things that could drag him out of the Delta labs in the middle of the day, and she doesn't want to hear any of them.

(She knows, she knows, she knows.)

“She’s back.” Shaw says, watching Finch hesitate before nodding. Her chest is heavy almost immediately, the air leaves her body quicker than a sprint and she’s swaying against the cold and already searching, searching, searching for brown hair and a black jacket.

(Rescued and rasping and Root. She’d fallen so far and failed to get up.)

Finch looks down to the floor before speaking again. “She was in France when she heard about Nine and Ten, left halfway through her mission to visit the wounded in Bravo and now-”

“Now she’s here.” Shaw finishes, dragging a boot across the rubber tracks. Her heart hasn't steadied.

Nodding, Finch mutters “quite so,” and looks up to give her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Finch clings dearly to what’s left of the Root they all used to know, still attaches uncomfortable familiarity to her name and speaks to her with ease. Root disappeared a long time ago and left fractures in her place.

Sometimes, Shaw despises them both. “Are you her little messenger?”

He looks surprised when he answers. “Quite the contrary, Ms Shaw,” he says, and she feels only slightly guilty at the accusation. “I wanted to warn you before you found out elsewhere.”

Shaw wants to run away, find a shadow in one of the warehouses and hide until she feels ready. Instead, she shrugs across from Finch and steps away. “I need a drink.”

 

\--                    

 

Falling feels like this:

Pulled from the wreckage of the crash, she smells burning clothes and burning flesh.

It’s 1993 and Sameen tastes of fire.

Her seat-belt leaves bruises across her shoulder and before she makes it to safety, she trips against the tarmac and looks back to see a car that won’t survive, a man that already hasn't.

“Where’s my dad?” She asks, and knows the answer.

 

\--

 

She’s halfway to drunk when the rec room suddenly goes quiet. She knows, knows, knows what she’ll be faced with if she looks up, so Shaw keeps her eyes trained on her drink in front and tries to breathe quietly through her clenched jaw.

(Rumors are whispered across the rebel camps, about how the commander is taller than the pictures would suggest, prettier than the posters give her credit for. Soldiers dream of meeting the commander in person, and they die before it becomes a reality.)

“Please, don’t stop on my behalf.” Shaw hears, and her heart drops to the floor. Sometimes, Root sounds exactly like she used to, cheeky and chirpy and home. Shaw clutches hard at the table top and tries to count the amount of drinks she’ll need to forget.

The chatter starts again, quiet at first and hesitant throughout. Shaw wishes, for the first time since she arrived at Delta base, that she didn't always drink alone on a single table in the corner. Unguarded and open, Root takes a seat opposite and smiles as she reaches for Shaw’s glass.

“Whiskey,” she says, breathy and glorious, “how cliche of you.”

Now that she’s here, Shaw can’t look away. Her hair is tousled against her protective vest and her eyes glow against the dim bulbs hanging above. She looks beautiful and Shaw falls so much further, opens her mouth to silence and scoffs back.

“Old habits.” Shaw says, it sounds like a squeak and she coughs against a closed fist before reaching for her drink. Root swings it out of reach and smiles like the room isn't watching. “I was drinking that.”

“I’m quite aware.” Root mumbles, bringing the glass up to her lips. Shaw tries not to watch it travel down her throat, but it has always been devastatingly long and Shaw had once been allowed to suck bruises along the curve. When she’s finished, Root slides the drink back. “I can’t say it tastes the same when it’s warm.”

“Whatever.” Shaw grunts and wipes halfheartedly against the rim. “Not like your regime wastes money on ice.”

“If it’s something you want, Sameen,” she says, leaning in and over the divide, “then I can look into it.”

It’s not true and they both know it, the rebel leader has more important things to do and Root isn't around Delta enough to care.

“How long do we have?” Shaw asks, tracing a path from Root’s neck, past her pursed lips and up to her eyes.

Root shrugs, running a finger against the metal in front and tapping a nail to a beat drowned under gossip. “A while.”

(It’s not enough, really. Shaw breaks at the thought and remembers waiting six years only to die beneath her shaky arms.)

“Are we just going to sit here, then?”

Root laughs and shakes her head, her eyes are distant and there’s a mask that hesitates across her cheeks. Drifting between being the leader and the hacker, she flits through personalities like she’s forgotten who she truly is. When she’s alone with Shaw, she’s often someone altogether new.

Sitting straight and quirking an eyebrow, Root almost whispers when she speaks. “Do you have a better idea, Sweetie?”

Shaw has many better ideas, and she nods and says as much.

 

\--

 

Root doesn't kiss her at first.

Out of breath and breathless, Shaw leans against Root’s office door as the key is turned and the lights flicker on. Seven flights high, the base looks minuscule from the top of the North Tower and Shaw tries to look composed after endless stair after stair after stair. Root looks angelic throughout.

Alone with the woman she so frequently dreams about, she can’t help but watch silently as Root pulls fingers down the length of Shaw’s hair and curls the ends at her shoulders. Root handles her like she’s still a ghost lying limp on the sidewalk, like her skin will break beneath her touch and she’ll, again, feel life slipping away through cold flesh.

(Shaw dreams, dreams, dreams of this woman and always stands immobile in her presence.)

Root’s hands drift up past her neck, dragging a nail along her jaw before landing lightly against Shaw’s cheek with a thumb pressing deep beneath the bone. Shaw sometimes thinks it’s okay to whisper reassurances, remind Root that it’s not six years ago and they’re safe here and now.

It’s not okay, though, and Shaw grunts against the soft touch and mumbles, “get on with it,” and hates the sudden loss she feels when Root pulls away.

Leaning down with a hand against the door (Shaw thinks she can hear the throb of Root’s pulse beneath her wrist), Root smiles and only briefly manages to fight the mask away. The commander flickers in front and retreats back in seconds.

“Don’t be a spoil sport, Sameen.” Root whispers, stepping forward and feeling so much closer. “You’ll ruin our reunion.”

With warm breath, wide eyes and wet lips so close, Shaw can hardly form words. Many would kill to one day be in this position, alone with the rebel leader and about to-

Shaw swallows. She’s thought about this moment for months, remembers watching her leave the last time and wondering when the commander would return, wondering if she would ever wake up with Root still there and not rapidly transforming into the leader she needs to be.

(Shaw wants, wants, wants so much and sometimes she can barely remember a life where she wouldn't wait for this woman.)

She’s lost, and Shaw has to gulp back whatever she wants to say before she ruins what’s left to cling to.

“Are you actually going to do something?” She asks instead, because this is how she can tell who’s standing in front of her. Samantha Groves, Root, Machine and rebel leader, Shaw waits and prays for _her_.

The answering smirk is telling, Root looks beautiful across from her and Shaw is so relieved she decides to do something herself. Pulling at Root’s jacket, she briefly hears “no need,” before there are lips pressing down hard. Root kisses like she’ll disappear and Shaw rocks into it and feels hips pushing her back and bounded.

It doesn't take long, then, for Root to push a hand slowly beneath her shirt and drag along the many scars that scatter her stomach. Shaw keeps her fists buried in the jacket across, swings them too close to skin at the sounds Root’s making against her mouth, and scrapes her teeth along Root’s lips in answer. She aches in her gut and pulses between her legs, this will never be enough.

(Later, Root will suck bruises along her skin in an attempt to cover the many markings from others. Later, Root will bite the inside of her thigh and hum at the taste of blood as she creeps higher. Later, Root will crawl up to her face and let herself be taken but not touched, never touched.)

Later, later, later, Shaw will drown in the feelings flooding her body and will be denied any access to the skin she longs to kiss.

For now, Root is Root and the commander is at bay and Shaw reaches up to scratch along her jaw.

 

\--

 

She doesn't realize she’s fallen asleep until she wakes.

Root is sitting on the chair across from the couch, dressed in black and blinking slow. It’s light outside and Shaw shudders against the glass walls when she sits and pulls at the blanket draped over her waist.

They sit in silence for minutes, until Root smiles and crosses her legs, leans an elbow on her knee and settles her chin against a palm. “You twitch in your sleep.” She says, looking across at Shaw’s bare shoulders and protruding collar bones. Root had bitten along them hours earlier.

The distance between them makes Shaw feel cold. “Do I?”

Root doesn't answer, stares at her swollen lips for seconds before turning her gaze to the windows. “I’m going away.”

It’s expected, but it hurts nonetheless. Shaw could brush it off, leave and pretend Root never returned for a visit. Try to get on with her life for a while longer until another rumor circulated about the commander’s imminent return. She could brush it off, but the mask is glistening and Root is lost beneath the leader and Shaw wants her back.

“Where?”

Root shrugs but replies with an answer anyway. “London. Greer is trying to set up links with the Prime Minister.”

“I could help, you know?” It’s not really a question at all; Shaw stopped waiting to be picked for the commander’s missions a long time ago. The Golf teams specialize in duties abroad and Root hadn't wanted Shaw in the field to begin with, she hadn't stood a chance.

As expected, she’s shot down. Root turns to look at her, nodding toward the base below as explanation. “You’re needed here, Sameen.”

Shaw scoffs. “I’m good with guns, I have a high tolerance to pain,” Root’s eyes flash at that, “and I know Samaritan better than everyone across the rebel camps.” Shaw has listed this before, explained all these points in the past. “I’m good anywhere.”

Root has almost disappeared from the room, in her place the commander sits and straightens against the chair opposite. “That may be so, but you’ll stay here for now.”

(Shaw aches with loss. Waking to a woman drowned in the role she thinks she needs, Shaw presses her legs together and tries to remember the smirk that had been between them the night before.)

Root’s stare is blank, her mouth straight and words cold. Shaw can’t stay still beneath the foreign glare for long, and she stands and drops the blanket to instead search for her clothes. She knows Root is watching, following her movements with a bite to her lip and a slipping persona, and Shaw pulls at her underwear slowly to drag this torture out.

Sometimes, Shaw is certain she’ll watch Root return and won’t recognize her at all. A fading existence, Root so rarely makes an appearance between the masks this woman adopts, and Shaw aches every time she has to watch the transition. Sometimes, she wishes Root would disappear altogether and become the woman the Machine is so desperate to make her into.

This is the commander the revolution clearly needs, and yet Shaw thinks Root would have been enough.

When she’s dressed and finished pulling at her boots, she turns to the growing stranger sitting in front and grunts. “I wish you’d let me forget you.” She didn't mean to say it aloud, but her mouth had opened and the words had rolled from her tongue.

It hits Root somewhere, and her eyes widen slightly when she asks, “is that what you really want, Sameen?”

(She wants, wants, wants _her_. It’s in touching distance but still so far away.)

“Yes.” She says and immediately thinks better of it. “No, I don’t know.”

Root, the commander, the rebel leader and analogue interface just stares and smiles sardonically. “Yes or no?”

Shaw feels wounded, somehow, looking into the eyes she only rarely knows. “I don’t know who you are most of the time.” She says, frowning as she shakes her head. In that moment, she doesn't know anything but the truth. “Sometimes, I wish you’d pick who you wanted to be and let me get on with my life.”

To anyone else, Root would just look still and static. To Shaw, Root is breaking and sitting silently in the aftermath. They stay like that for minutes, staring across and waiting for something miraculous. Something to save them both and rewind time to the subway, where everything had been simple and feelings had never really mattered.

Shaw aches with loss, and she turns to leave before she physically shakes life from the commander they’re wired to worship.

“Say hi to Reese.” Root says, just as Shaw has a hand curled around the handle.

She ignores it and flings the door open, feels the cold and gets only a few steps down until she sees Reese walking round the staircase. Root is half machine and half human (and not the human she wants), and Shaw doesn't bother to greet Reese as she passes, ignoring his knowing smile and husked questions.

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

She’s been led into a trap and Shaw crashes down to the floor in front of a woman who clearly isn't Veronica Sinclair.

She wakes to an enticing smile and an iron burning fast.

Something starts that day, and Shaw has been chasing it ever since.

 

\--

 

Root calls a meeting with all of Delta’s directors and leaves the same day.

There’s a buzz around the base as people crowd to the hangar to watch her go.

As Shaw watches the chopper take Root far away from here, she wonders if she’ll die before they meet again.

(The revolution doesn't leave time to mourn, Shaw remembers, and yet she wonders if Root would follow suit.)

 

\--

 

They train and train and train.

Pratt wants everyone back to their best and makes them run an extra lap, shoot an extra bullet and spar for an extra minute for every soldier they've lost. When she’s throttled the biggest guy on base, arm pressed to his throat until he taps out, Pratt makes them stand and do it all over again.

Bravo is gradually sending their soldiers back, one by one by one, recovered and ready to join combat. Reese greets every one of them at the gates, helps them off the truck and tells them to come back fighting.

They train and train and train, and the microchip sitting comfortably inside her head remains a mystery.

 

\--

 

The new recruits sent from Alpha and Golf arrive in the rain at dusk. Shaw trips out of the barracks, is immediately blinded by the floodlights and heads towards the muffled shouting. There are less than a hundred new soldiers lining up, climbing down from the trucks and watching Reese in front.

They look small against the backdrop, the base walls loom over and the vehicle wheels appear only slightly smaller than their heads. Shaw almost feels sorry for them; they’re probably barely out of training and now stand in the most dangerous base across the rebel camps.

Reese turns and notices her, gives her a little nod and carries on shouting instructions. She takes one last look at their newbies before trudging past the yard to bed.

 

\--

 

Finch stares at her over breakfast and she ignores it until his little coughs become annoying.

“What?” She grunts, throwing her spoon down into the bowl of slush.

He shrugs and tries to act nonchalant, but Finch has always been bad at acting. “Just wondering,” he says, pausing like she’ll magically understand the topic, “have you heard?”

Shaw shakes her head. “About?”

“The new recruit.” Finch says, pushing at his glasses when she doesn't immediately respond.

“There’s loads.”

Nodding, Finch smiles like he genuinely means it. She sees it so rarely, it throws her off. “Well, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.” He says, leaning back to chew on some oatmeal. She ignores it and wonders if Finch has finally given in to the gossip that circulates base.

 

\--

 

She understands the moment Pratt claps his hands.

“These are Delta Tango Eight’s newest members,” he says, pointing to the soldiers standing rigid beside him and then turning to glare at them. Shaw swallows and tries not to make eye contact. “We are comrades in this rebellion, together we are the only friends you will need.” Pratt always looks proud when he does this speech. “Look around Eights, this is your new family.”

(He looks the same, she thinks, seven years hasn't changed him at all.)

Running, running, running, Shaw sprints along the tracks in training and tries not to remember how easy everything was back then.

 

\--

 

He finds her in the rec room several drinks too late. (Just on time.)

“I never pegged you as someone who hides.” He says, invading her table and twisting his own drink in hand. Light stubble, menacing mouth and eyes that always spark trouble, Tomas Korao looks better in combat uniform than a suit and Shaw can’t look away.

She shrugs back and takes another sip. “I’m not a people person.”

“That’s okay.” Tomas says, crossing his arms and leaning closer. “Truth be told, neither am I.”

Shaw scoffs. “That’s bullshit.” She remembers watching him for days, listening as he charmed everyone he came into contact with and made women flock to his feet. “You played everyone around you.”

Tomas looks cocky when he smiles back and something flutters in her stomach. “If I remember correctly, so did you.”

It’s true. Shaw can barely remember who she was the day she met him. Grey or Shaw, thief or assassin, running or waiting at Root’s side. He’d offered her a job, back then, and she’d offered one in turn. It hadn't worked out, something had kept her in place, _someone_ had kept her stationary.

(There were things she cared about, she’d said, trying hopelessly to burn away the fear in her gut.)

“What brings you here?” She asks. Tomas reminds her of easier things and simpler feelings. She could give in now, if she wanted, and take him back to her bunk and feel nothing heavy in her gut. “Why did you join the rebellion?”

Tomas raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “It’s no fun being a thief if it’s impossible.”

Samaritan sees all, hears all and controls all without offering leniency. They raid schools for truants, imprison those that disrupt the order and carry out tests on the people they deem necessary, Greer’s government has run wild and Root’s rebellion is mere terrorism.

“Right.” She says, watching as Tomas raises an eyebrow. Before he can ask the same, she sits a little straighter and points to one of the tables halfway through a game of strip blackjack. “Not interested in giving everyone a show, then?”

Tomas laughs and shakes his head, spinning to watch a losing soldier dance along to claps as he pulls at his tank. “I figure we can do that later.” He says, turning to wink and looking down to Shaw’s lips.

It hits her straight between the legs and she laughs it off before mumbling behind the rim of her glass, “in your dreams, Koroa.”

He looks only slightly offended as he wiggles his brows again. “It certainly will be.”

(It feels strange, she thinks, having company at her table that isn't all that unwanted. She could give in if she wanted, it would be easy.)

“Get me another drink.” She says, smiling when he stands and does just that.

 

\--

 

The new recruits learn fast and Shaw floors them all twice before they’re ushered on in awe. Pratt pairs them with the best, so the standards are clear from the start and she watches them all improve over the week.

Reese finds her in the gym, staring across at the soldiers sparring on the mats. “Our old numbers pop up from time to time.” Reese says, gesturing to a flushed looking Tomas, who’s doing a good job at keeping a girl pinned to the floor. “I always thought it was only a matter of time before he turned up.”

She nods, avoiding the posters on the wall when she turns. “He’s good.”

“I bet he is.” Reese doesn't miss a beat.

Shaw rolls her eyes and glances back, regretting it immediately when she catches Tomas’ stare. “Soldiers with criminal tendencies are always better.”

Reese laughs, but doesn't disagree.

(She’s heard rumors about how this all came about. Samaritan took something from Root and, after a brief spurt of insanity, she decided to wage a war. It had started with a simple App and grew from there; Root started a revolution that split the world in two.)

 

\--

 

Tomas flutters his lashes when he asks, and Shaw only agrees after his third hour of sending her sad eyes.

(Sometimes, he reminds her of someone else entirely. And Shaw has to take a moment not to collapse with the pain of it.)

“Well, now I’m glad the truck didn't have windows.” Tomas says, when they've driven a few miles out from base to the long expanse of nothing. Over the course of her captivity, Samaritan had chosen the prime spots for development and economic growth and discarded the rest. Left the land to rot and die where there was nothing to be made from it.

Shaw had spent only a week at Kilo base, learning about the revolution and Samaritan’s many trials. She kicks at the ground below and watches the dry earth crack. “This used to be a town.” She says, nodding around. “Samaritan built a weapons warehouse and,” she shrugs, Shaw hadn't been around for six years and missed their initial fight for control, “and let’s just say it didn't go well.”

“You don’t say.” Tomas grits his teeth and makes some horrible hissing noises. “It’s a shame Greer and that nasty AI don’t publicize this.”

Miles away from here, the cities are flourishing under the new government. With improved education and training, the country has never been more secure and safe.

(Shaw remembers when Samaritan took control for the short period before the storm, before everything turned chaotic and she fell beside a broken elevator. The crime rate had hit an all-time low.)

The cost, of course, is everyone’s freedom.

(Fusco chose to stay on the streets with his kid, signs allegiance to the Samaritan state like every other citizen and pretends not to pass information to Finch through their secret coded letters. Shaw hasn't seen him since he’d watched her fall.)

She almost forgets she has company, almost startles when Tomas nudges her shoulder and whispers, “alone at last.”

Shaw grunts and steps back, frowning across at him. “Get in the car.” She says, brushing past him. “We have training.”

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

A syringe.

A needle, so very often pressed to her neck, and she’s falling against traffic lights, falling against arms that wrap around her back and follow her down.

One is filled with death and one is filled with sleep, one is pushed with hate and one is pushed with love.

Shaw can barely differentiate between the two. She falls down regardless.

 

\--

 

Rescued and rasping and Root.

She dreams, dreams, dreams of the woman who saved her life. The woman that had dangled an iron in front, fallen beneath Shaw’s own bullet and tazed her in the night. The woman that pressed a needle to her neck, pushed her down against a subway cot and clawed writing to the inside of her thigh.

Shaw dreams, dreams, dreams and wakes to posters she can’t bear to look at.

 

\--

 

Dr Barnes lets Finch sit in through her next examination.

“I just don’t understand.” He says, squinting from one of the corner chairs. Her tests, as usual, have come back normal. “What would Samaritan gain from placing an ineffective microchip in your brain? It would surely be a waste of their time.”

“Probably for this exact reason.” She mumbles, repeats it louder when they both lean in to hear. “Greer’s just trying to mess with you all.”

Shaw thinks it’s entirely plausible, but they ignore her and turn to look at each other. “It’s not a tracker.” Finch says.

Dr Barnes nods. “And it isn't affecting her vitals.”

They mull this over, acting like the patient with the chip isn't in the very same room. “Perhaps it collects different types of data.” Finch suggests, pushing at his glasses and watching as the doctor runs a finger down a checklist.

It’s shot down immediately. “The chip, as far as the Echo teams can tell, isn't growing in size or changing code.”

This goes on for a while, back and forth, options examined and crossed off until they both turn to scrutinize Shaw with frowns.

She’s a mystery to everyone. (Root would know.)

 

\--

 

They get their next mission two weeks later.

Charlie teams have identified four towns that are showing signs of either rapid economic growth or the exact opposite. Migration from two of the towns have left areas completely unoccupied or with a minimum population, this is the usual tell of a Samaritan experiment or a simple set up to maintain order.

These small-scale incidents are often carried out by new Samaritan recruits trying to prove their worth. A bored man with far too much time and far too much trust in his employer and the AI he thinks will revolutionize the world.

Reese divides the tactical squads between the four locations and tells them all to get some rest- they’re to leave the next day at dusk.

 

\--

 

Shaw is trying to get drunk when Tomas interrupts her. His eyes are soft but his smile is cheeky when he leans down against the table. Shaw can’t decide whether to down her drink or throw it in his face.

“What?” She asks, growing more and more exasperated by the second.

Tomas shrugs, pursing his lips slightly. “It’s my first mission tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Fancy a fight?”

Shaw shakes her head. She fancies getting drunk. “No.” She says, but she knows she’ll give in anyway. If Pratt found out she’d turned down one of the newbies requests for extra training, she’d be side-lined and told to stay at the truck.

 

\--

 

He acts surprised when she floors him, straddles his waist from behind and leans in close. “Don’t be embarrassed.” She says, pulling his arm higher up his shoulder blade. Her lips graze his ear lobe and he twitches below. “I’m just good at everything.”

Tomas hums, wide eyes and smirk in play, it would be easy to roll him over and rock them both to a rhythm that would end this.

(Give in, give in, give in. She doesn't want Shaw anymore.)

“I bet you are.” He manages to mumble, chin pressed firm against the mat. When his eyebrows begin to rise, the cheeky expression makes her feel sick and she remembers all the reasons (the only reason) why she doesn't want to do this right now.

Standing up and releasing Tomas, she steps away and clenches her fist ready for yet another easy floor. Her body is traitorous though, the way it turns ever so slightly to the poster on the wall, the way her eyes scan for seconds and blink back before she can swallow and shake it off. It was quick, always so quick, and yet not quick enough.

She knows Tomas has seen the moment his eyes go wide and his grin grows sleazy. “Oh wow, Shaw.” He says, nodding his head to the picture of an apparently heroic leader. “You’re another one, aren't you?”

It’s infuriating, the way her body turns hot with denial and fills fast with fury. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe she’s missed this all along. “Don’t be embarrassed.” Tomas says. “I mean, she’s the commander. Aren't we all a bit in love with her?”

The scoff comes entirely too quick and sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Tomas isn't fazed, he straightens his back and readies himself into an attacking position that won’t stop her from tripping him up at all. “Okay, then.” He whispers, a smirk dancing across his features. Shaw wants to punch him in the face. (She feels sick so suddenly. Shaw can’t love and yet she feels like she’s drowning all the same.) “You want to fuck her though, right?”

Shaw’s jumping on the spot, swallowing fast and blinking faster.

Tomas smiles when he places a foot in front and gets his fists ready for the assault. Looking back to the poster only briefly, he looks almost sweet when he mutters, “I wouldn't say no,” and then he’s lying flat on the floor with an arm twisting up around his back.

 

\--

 

Reese gives them a boring speech just before they set off. Below the blinding glow of the floodlights, he stands at the gates and tells them to fight for freedom and come back alive.

It takes them almost two days and Shaw can tell when they’re getting closer to the cities. When they stop for breaks there’s increasingly less mud and sand and dead earth, more buildings and houses and scatterings of people staring strangely at such a large moving truck.

Shaw doesn't sleep, doesn't dream and doesn't think about the woman they’re all doing this for. The woman that, whether they’re successful or not, will be blamed for orchestrating yet another terrorist attack against the Samaritan dictatorship.

On arrival, Pratt points to the apartment block the Charlie teams believe the activity is originating from.

“This isn't a tough mission.” Pratt says, standing in front of his squad of less than fifty. “Get in, search the apartment, get out and repeat. We’re looking for an amateur here, a stupid guy who got too chummy with his computer.”

The newbies are paired up and start from the bottom up, the most experienced are sent in separately and start from the top.

Pratt looks down his line of soldiers and looks almost proud. “Let’s get this motherfucker and get him quick.”

 

\--

 

It’s meant to be an easy mission, and it is.

She raids three apartments, finds two empty and one occupied by a young family hiding in the corner. Shaw waves her gun, takes a look around and exits. She knows what she’s looking for, has already been on this type of duty and it had been over within the hour. She shouts the all-clear through her earpiece and moves on.

It’s meant to be an easy mission and it is, until she kicks open the fourth door on the sixth floor and finds a timid man smashing frantically at his keyboard. There are wires twisted around, spanning around the room and all leading back to several large screens that cover the wall.

“Step away from the machines.” She’s screaming, stepping forward with her gun raised high. Echo teams will want as much data from these computers as they can get, so she shouts again and watches the man flinch. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

It’s a lie, she wouldn't care in the slightest, but Reese thinks they’re better than that and encourages them not to just kill the enemy for the sake of it.

She’s about to press the button at her earpiece to trigger the find when she stamps her foot one more time and raises her voice, screaming, “I said-”

“I know who you are.” The boy says, when he turns.

She’s startled by it, at first, his wormy smile and sudden stop against the keys. Shaw tries to shake out of it, scoffs and steps forward and clutches her gun a little tighter. She can’t place him at all, and thinks maybe Shaw’s capture and escape was big enough for a Samaritan warning. Reaching with one hand for her emergency button and the other stroking the trigger, she mutters “I’m going to shoot you.”

The boy shakes his head. “Doubt it.” He says, still shaking and sweating, before pressing down on the keyboard a final time.

 

\--

 

Falling, falling, falling.

The sound is piercing. It starts low and shrieks louder, louder, louder until there’s nothing else.

Shaw thinks she gets a shot in before she collapses to the floor, jolting against the wood and splitting in half. There’s shouting in her earpiece but the buzzing is growing louder and louder, sending shocks all through her limbs and she can’t hear, feel, see a thing.

Her head is breaking, her brain is splitting and Shaw thinks she’s finally dying.

(Rescued and rasping and Root. There’s no crying eyes above her, no arms to cradle her head as she grows cold.)

The noise is deafening, rising up and down, up and down, up and down her body until she can’t control a thing. She spasms against the wooden floor, convulses forward and thinks there might be sick spluttering somewhere.

(Where is she? What’s happening? Shaw doesn't know a thing.)

There might be hands restraining her, muffled yelling from somewhere above and liquid spreading out across her face. She might feel something or hear something, but it’s all drowned out beneath the ringing that’s shattering her eardrums and slaughtering her brain.

With one last seizure, she feels her head split against the ground and crack somewhere deep. The screeching continues as she fades to black.

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

The button is pressed so easily, it’s almost unfair it has to take a life.

There’s howling as she takes the first blow, louder at her second and Shaw can’t hear a thing when she’s splayed and bleeding against the third.

The elevator doors slam shut before she can look back and Shaw doesn't see daylight for years.

 

\--

 

Rescued and rasping and Root. She wakes in Delta’s only medical bed to a full house.

She hears Finch first, repeating, “she’s awake,” like if he says it enough it’ll somehow be more true. She’s surrounded by faces: Reese, Finch, Tomas, Pratt and Dr Barnes all stand in front. It’s suffocating and she closes her eyes and tries to will them away.

From the corner, she thinks she hears Root speak. “Give her space.”

(Once upon a time, Root wouldn't have left her side.)

Dissipating away, Dr Barnes is the only one that remains in her eye-line and she tries and fails to get a look at the woman in the corner.

The doctor is tapping on his clipboard and smiling. “Would you like the good news or the bad news, Shaw?”

She couldn't care less. “Surprise me.” She rasps, and grimaces at how much her throat hurts.

Dr Barnes nods. “The good news is that we finally understand what the microchip is designed to do.” He looks overjoyed and Finch comes up to fidget beside him. “The chip responds to a high frequency that normal people are unable to hear. This means that, in theory, Samaritan can use this to control you. The frequency triggers a set of seizures that essentially leaves you immobile.”

Shaw takes a moment to understand this, remembers a button being pressed and collapsing under a piercing sound. “What’s the bad news?”

Finch hobbles closer to the foot of the bed and takes over. “The bad news is that we believe you were merely a test.” He pushes at his glasses. “Had you stayed longer, you may have been privy to many more trials and studies. But Samaritan will know now, and probably have done for a while, that implanting these chips is a successful way of gaining more control.”

“And of course,” Dr Barnes interjects, “the bad news is that you had to suffer one of these attacks. You cracked your head when you fell, and the seizures have caused a few cuts here and there, but you’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

“Yeah, and I won’t go easy on you when you get back.” Pratt says, trying to smile but looking uncomfortable with the effort. “Good old Tomas here, he carried you back and made sure you didn't kill yourself during them little fits. You’re gonna have to go easy on him when you recover.”

Shaw scoffs and looks over to where Tomas is looking sheepish by the wall. She’d say thanks, but that’s what they’re all there for. Comrades and all, Delta Tango Eight are meant to look after each other.

“Did we catch the prick?” She asks, swallowing at the dryness in her mouth.

Pratt nods, turning to give Reese a little smile, “sure did, you gave him a nice scar as well.”

“I don’t know how you managed to hit the knee-cap in that state,” Reese says, lifting an eyebrow, “but he won’t be walking for months.”

“Good.”

There’s silence for a bit, and then Dr Barnes hums and taps a finger against the clipboard. “You should probably get some rest, Shaw. The medication you've been given can be a bit heavy sometimes, but press that red button for assistance.”

(The red button, the red button, the red button. She’d fallen in the basement of the banks.)

They file out, waving or smiling or offering words of comfort that Shaw doesn't really listen to. They file out, one by one by one, except for the person sitting in the corner.

 

\--

 

Shaw lies in silence for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen, waiting until she sees Root walking closer to her bedside.

“You could've died.” Root says, long fingers curling around the bars beside her bed. She looks pained, tired with mud streaks clinging to her cheeks. She probably came straight here on arrival and hasn't had a chance to sleep or clean. Shaw can’t explain what she feels at the thought.

“But I didn't.” Shaw says and remembers how dry her throat is, catching Root’s eye to point to the cup on the side.

Root picks up a straw, leans in close and gently holds the drink below her chin, watching it all in silence. When Shaw has swallowed the whole thing and dropped back down to the pillows, she finally speaks again. “That’s not the point, Sameen.”

“Then what is?” She knows. Shaw knows what Root is about to say, grits her teeth in preparation and tries to look past the commander’s mask. Tries to find the woman that dropped everything to be standing above her in Delta’s only medical ward.

“Maybe…” Root stops, looks at the bandage wrapped around Shaw’s forehead and back down. “I don’t think you gave yourself enough time to recover, after your capture. You should've been at Bravo longer, perhaps done a few courses at Kilo before being discharged.”

Shaw shakes her head, feels a sharp pain and settles for frowning instead. “I’m fine.”

“You hesitated out there.”

“Yeah,” she says, “because Reese doesn't want us to kill them all.”

Root pulls some hair behind her ear and Shaw notices how thin her face looks. “The Sameen Shaw I used to know would've shot him.”

She scoffs. “I did shoot him.”

“Only after you let him activate an attack-”

“I didn't know that was going to happen.” She thinks she shouts. Shaw watches Root’s eyebrows hover up before dropping, and she almost feels guilty for raising her voice. Except, she doesn't really, it’s just what the commander expects of her soldiers. “I was in a Samaritan cell for six years, I can handle this.”

Root blinks down calmly and it infuriates Shaw. It’s a few minutes until Root replies, and when she does it’s cold. “Until further notice,” she says, staring straight into Shaw’s eyes, “you won’t be cleared for duty, and you’re to remain here at base.”

“You’re joking.”

Root looks deadly serious. “I’m not.”

Filling fast with fury, she turns just as Root is stepping out of the room. “I hate you.” She says through gritted teeth.

Unfazed and unbent, Root turns to look back. “Do you ever feel anything else, Sameen?”

“Yes.” She says, staring deep into Root’s eyes and seeing nothing past the mask. “I did, once.”

It takes a moment, and then Root is nodding and tilting her head to the side. She leaves in a blink.

 

\--

 

She’s restless whilst she’s bed-bound.

“I can’t do anything about it.” Reese says, crossing his arms over his jacket and shuffling in the seat. “The order is direct from the commander-”

“From _Root_.” Shaw stresses, slamming her hands back down against the sheets. Shaw doesn't do well with orders, remembers being told to stay in the subway and giving up after a while with a bag of guns and a list of numbers. “Reese, it’s Root.”

“Yeah,” his eyes widen as he shrugs, “and she’s the commander.”

“This is stupid.”

Reese picks at the zip on is left breast pocket. “The chain has to stop somewhere.”

Shaw scoffs back. “And you really want that to be with miss perky psycho, do you?”

He looks exasperated when he responds. “It’s been six years, Shaw.” He says. “She knows what she’s doing.”

(Six years feels like an eternity.)

 

\--

 

Tomas comes to visit her, pulls out a closed fist and raises an eyebrow.

“I stole something for you.” He says, leaning in close to whisper. “Once a thief, always a thief.”

Opening his palm and sprinkling blades of grass across her sheets, she frowns up at him and asks, “you stole me grass?”

He shrugs and his smile is cheeky and refreshing. “Thought it would brighten the room up a bit.”

 

\--

 

Drowsy from the pills, Shaw thinks she’s imagining it.

(It’s her, it’s her, it’s her. The mask is slipping and Root follows the drip down to rest against her wrist.)

“You could have anyone,” Shaw whispers, blinking slowly at the woman above, “but you have no one.”

Root doesn't look offended; she runs a finger up Shaw’s forearm and stays silent for a few minutes. When she speaks, it’s shaky. “It’s funny,” she says, sounding anything but humorous, “everyone always thinks life ends after death.”

Shaw hums and waits, she hasn't heard anything funny yet.

With an unsteady breath, Root blinks up. “I was sure mine ended whilst you were gone.” Root looks like she’s about to break and it makes Shaw feel sick. Her head is aching again, pulsing to the same rhythm in her chest, and she tries and fails to reach for Root’s arm.

Her voice is raspy when she says, “I’m here, though.” Again, again, again, louder, louder, louder- “I’m back.”

Root nods but it feels more like a shake. “I can’t risk losing you again.” Root is finally _her_ Root, and yet Shaw squints up in confusion. “You understand why I have to do this, don’t you, Sameen?”

She doesn't.

(She does. Rescued and rasping and Root, she thinks she was dead for hours. She thinks Root stayed resuscitating her for days.)

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

They’re nice, at first.

Greer smiles and asks her questions and takes two years to decide the middle finger isn't the answer he wants.

Bruises and bleeding and breaks and burns, she loses her breath and falls.

Something is worsening outside these walls, Shaw can feel it in the kicks, hear it in the threats as she barely survives it all.

They’re using her for someone special.

 

\--

 

Finch holds the door open when she’s discharged. Staring intently at her head, she tries not to snap and kick at his cane as they walk in step.

“I bet it feels good,” he says, “to be out of that bed.”

She scoffs and shrugs, it won’t make a difference regardless. Root still has her on lock-down in the base. “It would feel good if I knew I could actually do something. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

“She just wants to be sure.” Finch tries for a smile, but nearly trips on a stair and decides to concentrate on watching his footing instead. “Ms Groves has your best interests at heart.”

Shaw doesn't mean to be nasty, she really doesn't. The words roll out before she can bite them back. “Root doesn't have a heart.”

(Once, a very long time ago, Shaw had pressed a palm to Root’s chest as she’d pushed the other down her pants. The answering beat had been terrifying.)

“I’m sure she’ll lift the ban before she leaves.” Finch says, hobbling down behind her.

It doesn't make her feel better; the commander could stay forever if she wished. “Yeah,” Shaw scoffs, turning to frown at him, “and when will that be?”

Finch stops, and it takes Shaw a few more steps to realize.

She levels him with a glare. “What?”

“Nothing, I just-” Finch stutters. “She hasn't told you, has she?”

(It burns. Somewhere, something snaps.)

“Hasn't told me what?”

Always awkward in a confrontation, Finch shakes his head and murmurs something about being urgently needed in the labs. It’s not true, but Shaw’s holding so tight to the railings she doesn't have the strength to run after him.

 

\--

 

Reese doesn't give her the answer she’s after.

Samaritan are building bases across Europe and the German president is now the third to buy into the system. Shaw nods when he tells her, watches him point to statistics sent over from the Charlie base showing the growing unease in Germany.

“So, what does that have to do with Root?”

He frowns, like it’s obvious. “She’s the rebel leader.” He says, as if that’s explanation enough. Following her shrug, he leans a little closer and folds his hands against the desk. “We need to build the resistance in Germany, establish at least one base opposing Samaritan. The commander needs to oversee all of this.”

For some reason, it feels bigger than the other missions. “What are you saying?”

Reese’s gaze is pitying and Shaw can’t stand it. “Root needs to prepare another country for the war. If Greer gets his clutches into Europe, this revolution will be impossible.”

(If Root leaves now, she’ll be lost forever. If she doesn't come back to be reminded of who she once was, Shaw won’t ever see her Root again. The Machine will make her into the detached leader to parallel Greer.)

“What are you saying?” She asks, again, again, again. Clutching hard at the chair below, she feels everything falling from her grasp. “How long will she be gone?”

Reese swallows before answering; perhaps he sees the panic on her face. “I don’t know.” He says, and she falls down miles.

 

\--

 

Her steps are shaky, her breathing faint and she trips into the rec room and storms back out.

She doesn't know what to do. She could sleep, run, fight or find Tomas and strip him.

(She knows, though, she knows what she really wants. Knows where she’ll probably find her as well.)

It’s immediate, the way her heart drops into the pit forming in her stomach. If Shaw could block out her surroundings, she could almost trick herself into believing they were back. Lost in the subway underground, she could walk right up and take, take, take what she wanted and Root would hum and chuckle back.

(Six years ago, Shaw would have pushed Root back against the wall and kissed her. Six years ago, Root would have let her.)

The hangar is dark compared to the overbearing sun outside. Root stands on the ramp of their newest aircraft, pointing over a clipboard with another soldier who can’t keep his eyes off her. It’s sickening, and it boils straight to her gut.

“Why didn't you tell me?” She shouts, walking in closer and clenching her fists when Root finally looks up.

“Sameen,” she sounds pleasant, “it’s good to see you looking better.”

Shaw can’t say a thing, sways against her anger and turns to stare evils at the small man to Root’s right. It takes a few minutes for Root to assess the situation, Shaw can see her scanning across her face and down to her swinging fists, and then she dismisses the other soldier with a forced smile and friendly tap.

When they’re finally alone and Root has dropped down from the ramp, she stands in front and asks, “how can I help you, Shaw?”

(She can’t help, not really. Shaw thinks she’s lost already.)

Opening her mouth, it sounds like a whisper. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Root blinks back, drops her head to her shoulder and smiles. “Tell you what?”

“You know what.”

Shaw can hardly breathe. She remembers Root standing above her in the medical ward days ago, running a nail along her arm and explaining how she lost herself. Six years in captivity, and all Shaw could think about was this woman, was the lips she’d kissed before pushing away, was the promises she’d made but knew all along she couldn't keep.

(Rescued and rasping and Root, Shaw wonders if they both died that day.)

Root looks tired, always so tired, when she breathes out a sigh. “You wanted to forget me.”

“Not really.” Shaw rasps. (Not ever, Shaw thinks.)

Across from her, Root laughs, shrugging back and breaking at the seams. “I tried to help-”

Shaw scoffs and- “Tomas?” She asks, stepping back and frowning. “That was you?”

Root doesn't nod, but Shaw knows the answer.

“That’s fucked up.” She says, growing louder. “I don’t need people to look after me, Root. When will you understand that? You didn't need to reassign him, I didn't need another you. It’s fucked up and-”

“Do you hate me, Shaw,” Root says, fast and fierce. Shaw stops in her tracks and stares up. “For leaving you in that cell for six years?”

It takes the wind out of her, Shaw rocks on her heels and blinks up in bewilderment. It’s not what she expected at all.

Root looks unfazed, bites her lip and squints down, watching Shaw intently before speaking again. “It wasn't intentional.”

(Turn away, away, away. This isn't _her_ Root.)

She doesn't want to do this, discuss this situation ever. She knows, she knows, she knows Root went mad whilst she was gone. She’s heard it in the rumors, listened to Finch’s stories and watched Reese nod along. Root believed until the very end, brought her back from the dead and drifted away somewhere in-between.

She can’t talk about this, so instead she tries to swallow the sick in her throat and asks, “were you ever going to tell me?”

Root doesn't look surprised at all at the change of subject. “What was the need,” she says, turning to walk away, “when I knew Harold and John would do such a good job at it?”

Shaw watches for seconds as her footsteps glide away, watches for seconds as the stranger walks deeper into the hangar and trails a finger along the wall. Shaw watches for seconds and grows so angry; she storms after her with an outstretched hand.

“You can’t just walk away-” she says, gripping at Root’s arm and pulling her round. It backfires immediately. Root’s pulled out of her grip and formed her own around Shaw’s neck, pushing them both against the wall behind and looking deadly.

It would be thrilling if not for the fire in her eyes. This isn't someone she knows. Half-machine and half-human, Root growls and flexes her fingers around Shaw’s throat. “Don’t underestimate us, Shaw.”

(It hits her hard, repeats in her mind and leaves a trail of _us, us, us_. Shaw is reeling.)

Rasping and breathing shaky through the hold, Shaw manages to ask, “who are you?”

It shatters something, and Root’s eyes widen, her mask slips and she’s stepping back and looking down at her hand like it’s burning. “I don’t know.” She whispers, wiggling her fingers. Looking up, she’s a ghost of who Shaw used to know. Root sounds uncertain when she speaks, says it like a question. “I’m who I need to be.”

“No.” Shaw says, pushing off the wall and rolling her neck. The pain is nothing compared to the throbbing in her gut, the ache and loss Shaw has come to understand and accept. “You were good enough before.”

Brushing past Root’s shoulder, it’s soft but Root swings unbalanced and, for the first time in a long time, Root falls.

 

\--

 

She runs laps until she’s sweaty and gross, fires at targets until the sheets are riddled with holes and there’s nothing left to shoot.

The rec room is empty and she drinks, drinks, drinks until she can forget. Until the bar is lined with empty glasses and she just asks for the bottle. Shaw remembers asking for Root to choose between human and machine, leader and lover, come back or leave her. This isn't the life she chose.

(She remembers, years ago, the whispering in her ear and touches that held for too long. She remembers Root chasing, chasing, chasing and Shaw being relieved when she finally gave in. Swallowed and sinking and sunk, Root was everything all at once.)

 Tomas finds her, laughs at the scowl on her face and curls a hair around her ear with a wink. He’s everything she wants, easy and eager and uncomplicated. She finds herself leaning in, squeezing her eyes shut and pretending there isn't a gap in her gut left empty.

He’d be perfect to forget. Maybe she won’t ache for a woman long gone, dream of eyes that take her home and a smile that makes her fall. Tomas is simple and seducing and there. Tomas isn't Root; in fact he doesn't really know her at all.

This is what Root wanted, after all.

“Fuck me.” She says, swaying against his grip. He looks shocked, squints like he didn't hear her and raises an eyebrow when she repeats herself. “Fuck me.” Over and over and over.

(Shaw can’t remember the last time she was fucked, had sex for the sake of sex and didn't feel like saving the moment forever.)

It’s sobering, getting pushed up behind the west wing barracks, pulled high to wrap her legs around a waist and feeling strong muscles below. It’s not altogether unwanted, Tomas hums into her neck, rocks into her and Shaw can feel something poke at her thigh. It’s different; not at all what she’s used to.

“I've wanted you since you first walked into the bar.” Tomas is whispering, hands at her waist. “All those years ago, do you remember?”

She doesn't answer, feels hands that are too soft, a mouth that is too wet and hips that don’t sway hard enough. (Root knows exactly where to touch her, what to say and when to bite. Root knows Shaw to her core.) It’s too much, too little and not enough. It’s so easy but so _wrong_ and Shaw can’t help but shiver at the tongue pushing between her lips.

Pushing away and dropping down, she shakes her head and falls back against the wall. “I can’t.” She says, holding a steady palm to his chest.

Tomas frowns down and scratches at his cheek. He’s out of breath and his lips shine beneath the floodlights. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” Shaw shakes her head; she isn't sure what to say. (Briefly, she thinks she’s made a mistake, and she isn't sure whether it was starting this or stopping it.) “I’m drunk.” She says as explanation, though the alcohol has settled and she isn't sure there’s any influence left.

He looks disappointed but nods and steps back, back, back until she’s shivering from the cold and leaning forward with a guilty smile.

“I get it.” He says, and he doesn't. “You’re recovering. You need to rest.” He’s nodding like he’s trying to convince himself, like this wasn't a disaster and he hasn't gone wrong somewhere.

(Perhaps she’ll forget about _her_ , forget about the commander and the many masks she likes to adopt. Perhaps one day this will feel right.)

“Yeah.” She whispers, walking forward and looking around. The yard is empty and the grass is wet. She can hear faint cheers from the rec room and she wonders if she should do as suggested or just go and drink more. Forget about this as well. “Yeah, I need to rest.” She says, and it’s decided.

“Do you want me to walk you?” He asks, pointing to the barracks. Always the gentleman, always the charmer, always around at the wrong time.

(Maybe everything will be wrong in the wake of Root.)

Shaw shakes her head, stumbles before gaining control and smiling. “I’ll be fine.” She says, pauses to watch him scrape a foot along the gravel. “Thanks.”

(Rescued and rasping and Root. Perhaps she’s destined to wait a lifetime.)

 

\--

 

The hallway is dark, the flickering light-bulb sways above and someone stands at the very end of the corridor. Shaw instantly knows who it is.

(She remembers the burn at her throat, the fire in the eyes across and _us, us, us_ and wants to back away.)

When she’s close enough, Root stands straight and watches as Shaw fiddles with her lock. “Sometimes,” Root says, unsure and unsteady, “I don’t know who I am.”

It’s probably the most honest she’s heard Root be since she started the war, and she stops in her path for only seconds before continuing with her key. Samantha Groves and Root, Machine and Commander, Rebel Leader and this. Shaw doesn't know either.

Root sighs and says, very softly, “Sameen-”

“I know.” Pausing to rest a hand on the door, she turns and sees the woman she often dreams about. Shaw tries not to fall, tries not to plead as she shakes her head across. “You’re Root.” She says, over and over, louder and louder. The mask is gone and in its place is the person she can’t help but ache for, can’t help but hate for leaving her here alone. “You’re Root.”

(Please, she thinks, please be Root.)

Root nods, like it’s the truest thing she’s heard since Shaw’s capture. And it probably is. Worshiped and relied upon across the rebel camps, the Machine has twisted her into someone who doesn't need to break at every loss, give up every time Shaw wasn't in the warehouse they raided. Six years alone with herself, Root hasn't been Root in a long time.

It’s selfish really, this feeling Shaw is filling with. Root was never there when Shaw woke alone, when Shaw recovered in Bravo and first arrived at Delta. Root left her in a Samaritan cell for six years and wasn't even herself for Shaw when she returned. Root left her to fight alone. It’s so selfish, but something inside her flares.

She pushes Root hard against the door the moment it’s shut. Shaw is seething through her teeth, hand trembling by her side and it only takes a quirk of Root’s eyebrow to send it up and wrapping around her neck. Root doesn't look surprised in the slightest.

“I hate you.” She says, because her breathing is fast and unsteady and her heart can’t cope with this anymore. She wants, wants, wants too much. Root will never understand what it feels like to wait an eternity and still be unable to give something up, even when she knows it’ll rip her apart. “Root,” she whispers, pressing harder at the gulp struggling beneath her palm, “I fucking hate you.”

Root isn't speaking, isn't making a sound aside from the wheezing escaping her mouth. Shaw thinks she tries to nod and it makes her press harder, curl her fingers tighter and she’s staring so intently at the impressions she’s making against Root’s neck (she has similar ones on her own), she only thinks to stop when Root claws at her shoulder.

She pulls back and steps away, nauseous and sick, and watches Root fall down against the door to gulp in shaky breaths.

Shaw can’t watch. She’s filling with bile and has to walk away, clench her fists and pace, pace, pace up and down until her heart isn't threatening to break through her chest and leave her lifeless and missing more than anatomy.

Root has wrapped herself around her lungs and she only manages to calm when her lids slam shut and she’s swallowed in darkness.

Breath bruising up her throat, it’s a while later that she feels fingers against her arm that pull her around and forward. Shaw opens her eyes slowly to see Root watching back. Root’s breathing is still heavy, but her hand is reaching out and Shaw tries not to close her eyes at the thumb smoothing across her cheek and pulling her closer, closer, closer until she thinks there’s nowhere else to escape.

“Does it hurt?” Shaw mutters, quiet and empty. She opens her eyes again and Root pulls her hand back and frowns.

Root, always with the answers, just shrugs. “It always hurts.”

It’s not technically what Shaw asked though, and she reaches out to press her finger against the already prominent bruises down Root’s throat. Her nail presses in hard before it’s replaced by a soothing thumb. Shaw wants to destroy Root and fix her all at once.

“Does it hurt?” She asks again, and looks into pained eyes burning above.

“Yes.” Root says, searching down and reaching across to pull Shaw so much closer, until their lips are a whisper away.

Root will always be too much and not enough.

So close she’s aching, Root doesn't kiss her at all. Instead she leans lower and lower and lower until her mouth is pressed to the very base of her neck. Shaw feels teeth between soft lips and warmth webbing out, they graze her skin only slightly and Root starts her path there.

It’s slow. A kiss, a nibble, a roll of tongue all the way up her throat and across the underside of her jaw. It’s overwhelming and Shaw doesn't think she’d be standing if it wasn't for the arm around her waist, the fingers pushing her head so far back it’ll snap if it falls further.

When Root’s reached her chin, Shaw can sense a smile as teeth drag up. “Look at me, Sameen.” Root whispers, and it’s all she can do to bend her head back into place and stare across. Root’s smile is soft but her eyes look deadly serious. “You can hate me later.”

It’s only then that Root finally kisses her, finally pulls them together and fuses their lips into action and Shaw can barely stand it.

She can’t stand it as she pulls at Root’s waist, answering the kiss with an open mouth and a moan Root happily swallows away. She can’t stand it as Root’s fingers flutter up to pull at the band in Shaw’s hair until it’s undone and there are nails scratching at her scalp. Shaw can’t stand it, being so close to Root and wanting nothing more than to freeze this moment and live in it for eternity.

(Losing Root to the commander kills her, but it doesn't hurt half as much as getting what she wants.)

With one hand threading through her hair, Root’s other appears at Shaw’s waist and begins to massage the skin beneath her shirt. Shaw gasps when Root’s mouth suddenly pulls away, she leans forward desperately to try to recapture her lips before her top is tugged between them and she’s topless before she realizes. Root steps back and is shameless in her observation.

Shaw wants to ask what’s wrong, but Root’s reaching out and slowly trailing fingers across her abdomen as if in a daydream. Samaritan left her scarred and damaged and Root has always pretended not to break beneath them. Even this gentle touch along her stomach leaves Shaw leaning in, burning in the concentrated paths that Root’s nails travel and _God_ , she thinks, she’s ruined.

“What?” Shaw asks after a while, because Root seems lost as she continues to trace fingers along Shaw’s stomach. And Shaw thinks it’s taking what breath she has left with every twirl. Root looks up only briefly to acknowledge the interruption and then just looks back down to where her fingers continue to dance lower.

She only gets a reply when Root is bending down, crouching and then kneeling against the carpet and Shaw has to gulp in air. “Nothing, Sweetie.” Root whispers back, wrapping her arms around Shaw’s waist and pulling her closer until Root’s face is resting against her skin. “Just taking in the view.”

Shaw grunts in response, but it turns ugly and shaky as Root presses open-mouthed kisses to her stomach and leans back slightly to do the same all the way down to the waistline of her khakis. Over and over and over, her stomach is trembling by the time Root has started to pick at the button on her pants.

Her head is swaying above it all, her hips are rocking against Root’s fumbling fingers and her hands move forward to drag through Root’s hair.

(Before, Root wouldn't take her time. She’d be flitting between roles and struggling to decide who she should be, how much she should feel and want and take. Shaw almost can’t breathe in the wake of this woman.)

“Hurry up, Root.” She rasps it as a warning, but she wants, wants, wants so much it just sounds strangled and strained.

Root laughs and Shaw can feel her leaning back and looking up. Shaw doesn't grace her with a reaction. “Can’t a girl take her time?”

Shaw’s about to say something mean or pull her head back into place, but she’s suddenly distracted by the unbuttoning of her pants. They’re pulled off quickly and Shaw steps out of them with the help of Root’s hand at her waist and then she’s just there, standing in her underwear in front of Root.

“I like these.” Root says, dragging a finger down her thigh and calf until they tug at Shaw’s stripy socks. “Very sexy.”

“I always wear them.” Shaw replies and sends evils down to the floor. “You've never noticed them before.”

Root looks serious then, her smile wavers and her blink is slow. Anger is starting to coil in Shaw’s belly just at the mention of Root’s disappearance and she wants to squeeze a fist in the hair waving below, but she’s instantly calmed by the thumb stroking at her ankle.

Root’s turned away and staring at her movements when she speaks. Barely audible, she whispers, “I’d take you anyhow, Sameen.”

Shaw swallows, pulls Root’s head back until she’s looking down at the sheepish expression and says, very slowly and sternly, “then take me.”

The socks stay in place, and Root doesn't look away as her hands cup the back of Shaw’s legs and smooth up, up, up until there are thumbs sliding beneath the material at her hips and then her underwear is being pulled down so incredibly slowly. Shaw can’t help rocking back on her feet, looking up to the ceiling to steady her breath and then staring back down at Root, who has now turned her attention to what’s right in front of her.

“God,” Shaw wheezes out. “Just do it.”

(She’s going to be left empty, she thinks, Root will take everything when she disappears again.)

The first touch of Root’s mouth leaves her reeling. She’s falling and burning and exploding from the inside out. Root’s humming against her, running a tongue through her wetness and pulling her closer. There are palms skating up her legs, nails digging into her thighs. Shaw can’t do anything but rock into it, tug at Root’s hair until she’s sure she won’t just collapse down.

Root isn't taking her time, she’s humming and licking and scraping teeth so lightly it hurts. Shaw’s so uncertain of how to keep breathing, her lungs aren't taking anything in and the taste of Root is distant in her mouth. The ball in her gut is spinning, growing and suffocating and Root is taking, taking, taking like she’s oblivious to the collapse.

“Is this what you wanted, Sameen?” Root has the nerve to ask when Shaw feels the devastating loss of Root’s mouth.

She’s about to scream, says “don’t-” before Root’s pushing two fingers inside and Shaw genuinely can’t stand. Her legs sway and Root’s there, always there, to hold her upright. She’s starting a rhythm Shaw can feel down to her toes and up to her throat, bending back and moaning, she throbs everywhere for Root.

Pulling in and out, Root only needs to suck briefly at Shaw’s clit until she’s arching over and shattering. Hands still twisted in Root’s hair, Shaw uses her head as leverage and gapes down as she comes. Eyes clenched shut, fingers curling and a warm mouth pressed to her center, Root always used to pull the best orgasms out of her.

“Do you still hate me?” Root says, afterwards as she’s licking a path up Shaw’s thigh for good measure. When Shaw eventually lets go of her hair and allows Root’s ascent, she stands still fully dressed and tries to smile. “Do you?” She asks, again, and doesn't sound nearly as sure as Root is trying to make out.

Shaw tries not to fall beneath Root’s anxiety, shakes her head and says, “not much,” wasting no time in getting her breath back and smoothing Root’s hair. Her hands are tugging at the shirt opposite, slipping over buttons as she tries to concentrate.

The bed is somewhere behind them, but Root doesn't seem interested in that at all. She’s just staring across at Shaw and not even assisting her with the task of undressing.

When Shaw looks up, it’s to piercing eyes and a mouth that wobbles before settling on a shaky smile. “Don’t hate me yet, Sameen.”

Shaw ignores it, ignores the ache in her stomach and the twist in her throat. She pulls Root around and across towards the bed and thinks she hears a quiet “please,” before she’s pushing Root down against the sheets.

 

\--

 

Turned over and away, Shaw tastes Root on her lips and still feels her beneath her fingers. Shaw had licked the impressions burnt against Root’s neck and hadn't been able to breathe against her skin. She’d wanted to cry and throw up and curl against her all at once.

“This is the last time.” She whispers, closing her eyes and trying to bury herself against her pillow. Root’s lying next to her between sheets only slightly paler than her own skin. She’s warm and Shaw feels the heat wrapping around her and lulling her to sleep. “If you leave again, I won’t be waiting.”

(Root knows what she means, Shaw is certain. They’re both aware of how she changes from person to person, but Shaw only ever wants Root.)

Root leans forward, presses kisses to her neck and drags a finger up her back.

“Do you understand me, Root?” Shaw thinks she slurs it, her eyes are heavy and Root’s touch is soft. Her thumb is weaving between Shaw’s spine and bumping against her vertebra, her lips are pressing gently beneath her jaw and Shaw doesn't want to wake up from this. She doesn't know if she can exist without the smell of Root hovering near and the taste of her still simmering on her tongue.

She almost forgets she’s asked a question, doesn't realize she’s awake until Root whispers “don’t sleep yet.” And, minutes later when Shaw is almost lost to the world, “I need you to wait for me, just one more time.”

Shaw sleeps to Root and dreams of Root and doesn't know if she can wake alone. (It’ll rip her apart.)

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

Rescued and rasping, Root pulls her tightly to her side but she falls all the same.

There are people everywhere, guns firing, soldiers dying and trucks just spitting out more. She’s breaking against the sidewalk between Root’s frantic face and the tremendous amount of blood pooling out beneath her.

Her eyes drift down and her body sags and she thinks she hears a scream before she dies.

 

\--

 

Shaw rouses to cold sheets and cold skin and forces herself not to trace the fading warmth beside her.

Briefly, she thinks it was all a dream.

Shaw hates being the one to ache and break and wait painfully for someone else.

She won’t be that person anymore.

(Rescued and rasping and Root, it hadn't been a rescue at all.)

 

\--

 

She finds out through Reese.

“She’s gone to Golf,” he mumbles, looking down at the sheets on his desk. Anything to avoid her glare, he drags a finger along the lists in front and pretends not to notice Shaw pacing in front. He looks up when she stops. “She’ll be back.”

Shaw shrugs and winces at her failed nonchalance. “Whatever.” She says, trying not to kick the chair leg off.

“She needs to brief the squads going to Germany.”

“I don’t care.”

Reese raises an eyebrow at her scoff. “You asked.”

Frowning across, she does kick the chair and it stands firm against the attack. “Not because I care.”

 

\--

 

Pratt asks her to do a lap, then another, then another and then tells her to stop.

“We’ll start you off simple.” He says, trying to smile against her scowl.

Tomas is the only one that will spa with her, tripping fast and then tapping out against the mat. “You said you’d go easy.” He laughs, getting up and brushing the dust from his shirt. He looks at her like she’s about to break his heart all over again.

“No, I didn't.”

She thinks about letting him win once, to make up for the other day and his gallant rescue, but thinks better of it and floors him instead.

 

\--

 

Finch comes to her check-up and smiles as her vitals come back normal.

“I have a proposition for you, Ms Shaw.” He says, leaning against his cane and glancing briefly to Dr Barnes. “I think it would be beneficial to everyone if you would allow me to do some tests on the microchip.”

Shaw hates the idea of becoming a human test subject, but she’s bound to base and Pratt is a liar and still treats her like she’s made of glass. Shrugging, she can’t think of anything else to do. “Fine, whatever.”

Finch looks overjoyed. “Wonderful.” He says, smiling brighter than he has done in a long time. He wants so desperately to destroy Samaritan, the AI that ripped his team apart and left them all floating alone. “I know we’ll find something.”

For the first time in a long time, she believes in the man she forgot to watch grow older.

 

\--

 

Tomas finds her in the rec room and fidgets till he’s downed his drink.

“I heard a rumor.” He says, holding his glass tighter and tighter until his knuckles turn white.

Blinking across, Shaw already doesn't like where this is going. “Enlighten me.”

He doesn't reply at first, breathes heavy and tries to calm himself before looking up from the table to frown. “Why didn't you tell me the commander was in love with you?”

The wind is knocked out of her. For a brief moment, she can’t breathe and Shaw sways against her stool and wants to fall.

(They don’t use that word, people like them. Reese, Root and Shaw, they don’t fall in love, not ever. It’s not something they’re allowed to do.)

“What are you talking about?”

Tomas laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I knew there was something there, I just-” he stops, looks at her and smiles. It’s so genuine and broken; Shaw doesn't know what to do. “Do you know that everyone here thinks this was all done for you?”

“Tomas-”

“You’re the one, right?” He asks, nodding to his own question. “You’re the one she lost and couldn't get back.”

Shaw doesn't have an answer. (Root had built an army for her and watched her die at the finish. Six years in capture, sometimes Shaw thinks it was a lifetime.)

Swallowing heavy, Shaw says the only thing she can think of. “I’m sorry.”

It’s expected, she’s sure, because Tomas carries on smiling as he brings a hand to rub against his stubble. “I know.” He says. “I know you are.”

“We’re a good team.” She says, trying not to reach across. “We’re still a good team.”

Tomas, always the man she wishes she could want, nods and grins like he isn't breaking. “Yeah,” he whispers, repeats it when she sighs with relief. “Yeah, we are.”

 

\--

 

Shaw is picking apart Delta’s guns outside one of the lockups when she sees her.

Striding between vehicles and soldiers loading the trucks, Root looks more relaxed than usual, smiles when she’s talking and quirks an eyebrow when a box is dropped near her feet. She looks like someone she used to be, and Shaw prays it’s not wishful thinking.

Root waves when she sees her staring, and Shaw fumbles the magazine she’s holding.

 

\--

 

She finds Reese in the shooting gallery.

“Congratulations.” He says, putting down his pistol and turning with a smirk. “You’re cleared for duty.”

It takes her a minute and then, “what?”

Reese looks slightly smug. “The good old commander dropped the ban.”

(Maybe, maybe, maybe Root’s not lost to the world just yet.)

Shaw raises a brow, says, “about time,” and walks off.

He calls her name just as she’s about to walk out the door. At her questioning glare, he smiles as sincere as Reese can. “She leaves at dusk.”

Something drops, but she knew. Something smashes, but she knew all along, she knew Root would return only to leave for longer.

“Thanks.” She says, and tries not to fall as she walks away.

 

\--

 

It’s raining and the grass is wet. Root stands below the floodlights, swaying in the middle of the yard like she’s been expecting her.

When she’s up close and barely a step away, Root pushes wet strands of hair from Shaw’s face, smiling and looking so cheeky Shaw aches with reminiscence. “I always loved you wet.” She sings, leaning her head to the right to look Shaw up and down.

Shaw scoffs, but it hurts more than she can say.

(It’s almost unfair, how she can get Root back just before she leaves.)

“You cleared me for duty.” Shaw says, because her throat is constricting against the onslaught of feelings.

Root nods and her eyes widen for a bit, blink away the water dripping down. “I did,” she says. There are trucks in the distance, a chopper being prepared and a group of soldiers running in and out of the hanger. Root is leaving soon and she won’t be back for a while. She almost doesn't hear Root when she speaks again. “I need you to be careful.”

Looking up, Root’s face is serious. It hits her, so hard and so heavy, that there isn't a mask there. Root’s eyes are clear, her lips twist up ever so slightly and her shoulders slump down and she looks relaxed. Root will always be the commander, but she’s somehow Root as well.

“You too.” Shaw says, flaring her nostrils when she breathes.

Root laughs, steps forward and leans closer. There are faint bruises along Root’s neck, and Shaw stares across at them for a long moment, looking up to Root’s steady stare. “I’m coming back.” She whispers, says it a little louder when she moves nearer.

Shaw nods and believes her. Shaw nods and thinks she could probably wait a little longer. Shaw nods and clutches forward when Root leans down and kisses her, sways against her hold and reaches up to cradle her jaw and ask for just a little bit more.

(Root is Root and Shaw is Shaw and, right now, she thinks it’s enough.)

 

\--

 

Falling feels like this:

Root brings her back to life and she thinks, heart heavy in her chest and looking up into oak brown eyes and home, this is the furthest she’s ever fallen.

 

\--

 

 


End file.
